


Break Apart

by ElliottWitt



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Himbo, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, Mama Witt Feelings, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, headcanons, miraltar and mirapath if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 01:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottWitt/pseuds/ElliottWitt
Summary: What do you do, when you achieve your dreams, your goals, all the things you aspired for, and yet you still are not happy?Series of Mirage drabbles for ask prompts.





	Break Apart

**Author's Note:**

> _SO_, this. This was actually just responses to RP meme prompts ([link here for those interested](https://licensedlesbian.tumblr.com/post/162573935296/late-night-self-reflective-ask)) but my extra ass had to go and write however many thousand words this ended up being. But hey, I haven't actually had to write Ell backstory before, especially now we know the war ended only like 6 years ago, so, fun! Figured I might as well publish here given they work as stand-alones and also my current WIPs are gonna take forever to finish.
> 
> This is totally un-beta'd, other than by myself, so not up to same standard as my other fics, but I feel weird getting stuff I wrote for roleplay beta'd. So, apologies for any mistakes!
> 
> Very, very minor alcohol mentions, anxiety attacks, but other than that, think that's the only CW other than lore-typical mentions of war.
> 
> Title from the song 'Break Apart' by Bonobo, which is a gorgeous song everyone should hear at least once in their life.

**CONTEMPLATION -** **_i_****_f you could wake up one morning and everything in your life was perfect, what would that look like?_**

**_  
_**Elliott used to think he knew the answer to that.

Growing up, the answer had seemed so simple. _The end of war_. He’d never known anything different, and so it had seemed too inconceivable a world to ever actually be, but –

He’d hoped, all the same.

Then one by one, his three brothers had enlisted with the Militia, and one by one, they hadn’t come home. Their small home, where once upon a time he’d had to work so hard in order to even be heard over all the noise, suddenly silent. He never saw his mother cry – she never did, not around him, anyway – but she smiled significantly less after that third MIA notification.

So, the answer remained the same. The end of war – which would surely mean his brothers would come home then, given that missing didn’t mean _dead _after all – and to see his mother smile again.

But sometimes, the impossible really _did _happen. The pilot Jack Cooper and his Titan destroyed the planet Typhon, thus finally bringing peace across the Systems, after decades of conflict. People had taken to the streets in celebration on every planet all over the Frontier – Elliott had been working the bar when the news came through, the holo-screens dotted around the room interrupted by emergency broadcasts. The whole room had fallen into a stunned silence, before erupting in vast variations of emotion: some people had cheered, some had wept, most had done both, whilst some just sat frozen in their chair, unable to actually comprehend what had just happened. Elliott hadn’t even looked for his manager – rules didn’t apply on a day like today. He’d simply whipped the bar towel from off his shoulder and onto the bar, before taking off and out of the room like a shot, sprinting the whole way home.

His mother had been there, on the couch in front of the TV, wearing her oil-stained shirt and slacks, smudges of dirt on her face, which meant she must have come straight from her workshop. She didn’t cry in front of Elliott, but she was crying then when she turned and looked at him, but smiling too.

And as Elliott had knelt in front of her, and pulled her against him in a hug, he had thought: _finally_.

Everything was going to be okay.

Neither of them had expected to hear anything in the coming week, or even the one after that, things were too hectic, what with everyone trying to figure out with what a life without conflict even _looked _like. But as the days went by, as other families in the city began to receive communications from their loved ones they’d believed lost to the war, as soldiers began to return home to daily celebrations, Elliott and his mother had stood by their door and watched, wordless. He’d put a reassuring arm around her shoulders, and she would lean into him for just a second, her eyes closed – before straightening herself back up, pulling her long dark hair back into a bun and announcing she was heading back to the workshop.

So the war had ended, and still, Elliott was not happy.

A new answer seemed to present itself, however, when he began to hear talk of the Apex Games. It had been at the bar the first time he heard of them: he would overhear the odd comment here and there at first, but then it soon seemed like it was all anyone who came to the Lounge talked about. There were plenty of people still in Solace, much like himself and his mother, to whom the end of the war hadn’t exactly spelled the end of their sorrows, and watching their faces light up as they chatted excitedly over the Games themselves, urged Elliott to switch the holo-screens to the channels airing them or even just interviews with the stars of the Games themselves, well.

Those smiles. That shared joy in something. A thing that brought people together the way the Games seemed to, a thing to focus on, outside of the lingering grief in the aftermath of the war.

It stuck with him.

He’d followed the Games religiously, watching them from the Lounge or at home, chatting with patrons over them, collecting newspapers and magazines and pouring over them at length. Elliott wasn’t exactly naturally confident, but the Games seemed like something he might actually be _good _at. His brothers had taught him how to handle a gun, he practiced down the range regularly, and he could see just how much of an advantage the custom holo-pilot technology his mother and he had been working on could provide in the ring. No one _else _knew the Pilot technology to cloak, and that combined with the holo-decoys, well… Distraction was a powerful tactic.

But he couldn’t leave his mother childless. They took precautions in the Games to prevent it, he knew, but people still died. The respawn system wasn’t flawless, nor could it protect you from _every_thing. And so he kept his hopes and dreams to himself, and kept on working on their designs with his mother in his free time, whilst working overtime in the bar to make ends meet.

Then the day came when she handed him over their custom tech, and told him to follow his dreams. Smiling as she did so.

His mother did not cry around Elliott. But Elliott cried then, as he held her in his arms and thanked her.

And promised to make her proud.

He had thought he might do well in the Games, but he could have never anticipated the reception that he ended up getting. He’d been right – his custom holo-tech designs had quite literally bamboozled his opponents, and he’d even managed to win in his very first game. Achieved Legend status after his first season, something Path and Makoa had told him was practically unheard of and that he should be proud of.

And he’d smiled and he’d been pleased, whilst at the same time, being all too aware of the dull ache gnawing away behind his chest.

Because it had been his dream, and he’d achieved it.

And he still wasn’t happy.

What do you do, then, when you achieve your goals, your dreams, your aspirations, and still in reality, you’re deeply unhappy?

Lying awake at night, his breath coming uneven, digging his fingers into the sheets of his bed as he stared up at the ceiling and tried to not let the loneliness consume him – he couldn’t help but ask himself this.

And hate that he already knew the answer.

Because the answer wasn’t possible. Happiness, peace of mind, a perfect life: the ugly truth was that none of it was possible anymore.

He closes his eyes, lays a hand over his rapidly beating heart, and allows himself for just a second, to _pretend_.

It’s so simple. It’s a dinner table at his own home – him and his partner’s, someone who was actually able to put up with his bullshit, his neuroses, the endless list of issues that plagued him wherever he might go. The table is full, his brothers all returned, safe albeit not entirely unharmed from the war. They tease him for his various scars, his Legend status, but it’s all in jest. They’re serving their favourite: mom’s old recipe, passed onto him, garlic butter baked pork chops, and the wine is flowing. His four dogs nudge at their laps as they eat, staring up pleadingly at the attendees – and dutifully rewarded with the odd scrap because really, who could say no to those faces?

His partner is holding his hand on the table, seated beside him. They give it a reassuring squeeze every so often.

Whenever Elliott looks at his mother, she is smiling.

Reality washes back over him, and the cavernous ache in his chest threatens to swallow him more than ever.

He will not sleep tonight.

**

**CANDLE LIGHT -_ are you an indecisive person?_**

Elliott had had to stop and wonder this himself, once, when a journalist had sent him along one of those ridiculous ‘Get To Know Your Favourite Legend!’ questionnaires for one of the trashier spreads. Only a number of the Legends ever bothered with these ones, but Elliott always indulged them.

The fact he’s wavering between both options probably means he is, right? This very struggle was evidence enough of that.

Albeit, as he gnaws on the end of his pen, he considers the other times in his life he’s had to make difficult decisions. There had been many, but the one that stands out ahead of them all is the decision to enter the Games. Yes, it had only been _after _her encouragement to follow his own path, and to do what he loved but _still _– it hadn’t made leaving any harder. It had taken _days _to reconcile his guilt of leaving, in spite of her reassurances, with the resolve that _yes_, the Games would bring fame and wealth but – it served a greater purpose. Gave the people left empty in the aftermath of the conflict something to rally around, no matter which ‘side’ they had been on during the war.

He’d grappled with it back and forth before making his decision with what felt…right. That guilt again. Was attempting to give the people of Solace to be someone they could be – hopefully – proud of, the way they were of Makoa Gibraltar – more noble than staying with his mother, not leaving her all by herself?

He chews so hard on the end of the pen that it _cracks_, and he curses as the ink spills into his mouth, spitting out mouthfuls of blue to the side. When he glances back down at the page, it appears he’d marked both ‘decisive’ and ‘indecisive’ without even realising at some stage during his ruminating.

He sighs and rubs a smudge of ink away from the corner of his mouth.

Guess that answered that, then.

**

**SHOOTING STAR - _who is someone you trust to help you make the right decisions?_**

Ajay Che was someone who everyone seemed to universally agree that despite her young age, when she gave advice? You took it. Even when delivered with as much dry sarcasm as she could possibly muster, you knew that it came from the best possible place. Even _Caustic _listened when she chided him upon the durability of his NOX gas canisters – sure, the larger man had glared down at her, but she had met his gaze fiercely right back – until he had flushed, and stomped away, muttering something to himself about how he’d ‘needed to check on the cylinder storage _anyway’_, whilst Ajay just sternly watched him leave, arms folded over her chest. Ell had been grinning along watching the whole time. But then her gaze fell on him, and –

“And _you_, Elliott – don’t think I don’t realise you haven’t been working on those breathing exercises I gave you.”

Elliott flinched as she marched towards him.

You were _supposed _to take Ajay’s advice. And lord help you if you didn’t.

**

Having followed the Games from the get-go, Elliott had always found himself intrigued by Makoa Gibraltar. The same age as him, from Solace as well, a SARAS worker and local darling of his planet, well. It was hard _not _to notice him.

Handsome too, but whatever.

Upon arriving at the Games, Path had been all too eager to introduce the pair of them, and Makoa’s immediate warmth and kindness towards a newcomer had been…kind of overwhelming.

They had gotten along from almost the very start, his easy-going nature something of a salve to Ell’s frayed nerves and anxieties. Whenever he was around Gibraltar, it was like the ongoing flurry of panic that never seemed to cease in his chest just…eased, a little. More than a little. Something about his kind smile, soft words, complete and utter ease in just _existing_, it just –

Took the edges, off the rest of the world, that bit more.

Makoa was one of the rare people to have seen Elliott’s full-blown panic attacks – truly, Elliott’s anxiety had only _worsened _from the embarrassment fearing what Makoa must have been thinking about him, how stupid he must have seemed, how embarrassing this was in front of a co-worker he liked and admired so much and –

A steady hand on his shoulder. His face filling his vision, expression full of calm, no judgement or disgust or even fear, just – utter calm.

“I’m here, Ell,” he’d told him. “Try ‘n match my breathing. Inhale, exhale. Just like that, yeah? Let’s give it a try.”

Elliott had apologised afterwards, only for Makoa to not even wave him off and tell him it was all good. But to look at him and just smile, that _Gibraltar _smile but – warmer still, than he’d ever seen before. Something that just seemed to be just for Elliott alone.

“Ain’t nothing to apologise for, brother. Nothing to be ashamed of. We all need a helping hand every now and then. That’s what we’re here for, right? Got each other’s backs.”

He’d clapped Elliott on the shoulder again, flashed him one last smile.

“I’m here for you, Ell. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.”

Elliott had stayed there, sitting on his HQ bunk for a long while after, staring at nothing in particular.

Accepting acceptance was not something he was particularly good at.

But maybe Makoa had a point.

They had each other’s backs. Inside, and apparently, outside the Ring.

**

He’d already known that the cheerful MRVN he’d encountered in the Lounge about a year ago was in the Games by the time he entered – of course he did, he followed the coverage of the Games religiously. They’d even gone on and achieved _Legend _status, albeit, going by the interviews with him, he was as of yet unsuccessful in actually finding that Creator of his.

It had been a shock, of course, to see him on the screens at first. He’d suggested the Games yeah, but to see someone actually follow _his _advice? That was…new. Entirely new, but nice. To know a person out there could value his own suggestions enough to alter their entire life course so as to follow them.

The MRVN he met once he entered the Games – going by ‘Pathfinder’ now – was slightly different, albeit undoubtedly much the same robot from that first encounter. A little more uh, gleeful about his passion for bloodsport, but at heart, the same over-enthusiastic, excitable robot that had wandered into the Lounge that night with an insatiable urge to quiz Elliott relentlessly on multiple topics, no matter how busy Elliott had been at the bar.

Finally, Elliott had passed on his own dream to the MRVN: hey, if he wanted to find someone and he’d no idea where to even begin, why not make himself as well known as he possibly could? The MRVN had chirped endearingly, thanking him profusely before bounding out of the room.

And taken his advice. As of yet, he hadn’t yet achieved his overall goal in finding the person who had made him but –

He was here now, as well Elliott, and he undeniably had a family now.

The Legends all were, in their own strange way.

It’s driven home, some nights, like those where they’re all slumped around tired in the rec room following a match, drinking beers and exchanging stories from the day’s Game.

It had been one of the tougher battles for Elliott that day, and he’d taken more than his fair share of knock downs throughout the match before ultimately ending up third after about his fifth Peacekeeper to the head had knocked him down for good. He shouldn’t really be drinking – Ajay and Makoa had already scolded him, but you know, hadn’t actually chased him out yet and besides, the worst possible thing would be to be left confined to his bed all alone tonight.

And so he just sips his beer, hazily listening to the laughter and chatter of his friends, content in the middle of the sofa, feeling Makoa’s broad arm thrown over the back, whilst Path excitedly exclaimed from his other side. It was warm. Comforting. A sense of belonging it felt like he’d lacked for an awfully long time, outside of the safety of his own home.

He must have dozed off at some stage, because the next thing he remembers is the sensation of….running? Without actually moving his own limbs? He blinks, wondering if this is some sort of lucid dream and –

Ah.

A red optic overhead, the feel of cool, metal limbs cradling him, the faint glow of his display screen. Right. He must have passed out at some point.

“Path?” he asks blearily.

“You were tired, friend!” Path responds in his typical cheery manner, “I thought it best to aid you to bed! You did your best in the Ring today, but! I believe you are suffering from fatigue as a result of the multiple wounds you have endured over the last 12 hours! According to my analysis, I believe rest if the best cure in this instance!”

Elliott sighs, lets his head fall against the MRVN’s display screen gently, his eyelids fluttering shut already. He shuffles a little closer, trying to make himself that bit snugger.

“S’ok, Path,” he murmurs, feeling sleep take him again, “I trust your advice.”

He’s already asleep before he can hear if the robot even replies.


End file.
